The Baron sighed.  There was frank hostility in Philip’s eyes.

“Miss Westfall,” added Philip hotly, “is the unsuspecting victim of a peculiar network of mystery of which I feel you hold the key.  Her camp is constantly spied upon.  Upon the night of the storm there were two men lurking mysteriously in the forest near her camp fire.  The knife of one I was unfortunate enough to receive.  The other,” Philip’s eyes glinted oddly, “the other, Excellency,” he finished slowly, “tried, I firmly believe—­to kill Miss Westfall.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the Baron, greatly shocked.

“If I might know the nature of your peculiar interest in Miss Westfall,” urged Philip bluntly, “I would have greater faith in your apparent surprise.”

The Baron reddened.

“That is quite impossible,” he regretted formally.  “Pray believe that you have magnified its importance into exceedingly ludicrous proportions.  I fear I am obliged to dispense with your faith in my integrity on the conditions you mention.  Your resolution to leave me—­that is final?”

“Entirely so.”

“I am sorry,” said the Baron simply.  And, meeting his chief’s eyes, Philip felt somewhat ashamed of one or two of his highly colored suspicions and reddened uncomfortably.

“It is at least—­comforting,” observed the Baron quietly, “to feel that whatever I may have said in confidence to you will be honorably forgotten.”

“Excellency,” said Philip with spirit, “though I may not speak to Miss Westfall of your interest or my suspicions, for reasons which need no naming among gentlemen, it is but fair to warn you that henceforth I shall regard myself as personally responsible for her safety.”

“Gallantly spoken!” declared the older man, and watched his secretary, as he bowed and withdrew, with more regret than he had seen fit to express.  Then, lying back in his chair he listened with unsmiling attention as Philip entered the billiard room with a laughing shot of abuse for Dick Sherrill which aroused an immediate uproar of welcome.

Watching the Baron’s narrowed eyes, one might have wondered greatly.  For Baron Tregar looked very tired and grim.  At length, having smoked his cigar quite to the end, he went up to his room and summoned Themar.

“Ah, Themar!” said he softly, and laughed with peculiar relish.

Themar shifted restlessly.

“Excellency,” he began, uncomfortably aware of unpleasant mockery in his chief’s keen eyes.

The Baron matched the tips of his powerful fingers and studied them intently.

“Themar,” said he acidly, “within a fortnight I have lost a car whose burned remains were found several miles from here, and a secretary whose friendship and invaluable service I prize more highly than your life.  I feel that you can to some extent explain both of these disasters.”

“Excellency knows,” reminded Themar glibly, “that the car was stolen from the Sherrill garage.”